Bye Bye, Blackbird
by PRAUS
Summary: A/U, post WW1 Berlin - Former aristocrat-turned-cabaret-owner, Roderich Edelstein will go to any lengths to keep what's left him, that is until he is forced to choose between saving himself or the man he wished he'd never loved. Austria/Prussia, Germany/Russia, mentions of others. Rated M for language, adult themes
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N **Oh my God, another multi-chapter. Why, WHY do I do this to myself? I must be a masochist…..Um, yeah, so expect the following from this story: language fit for a sailor, slow updates, angst, funny moments, sad moments, drag queens, cabaret/Golden Twenties Berlin, drinking, smoking, mentions of prostitution, did I mention angst? – ya know, the usual stuff from me :-D This is also my first attempt at overtly stated BL, so I apologize if it lacks the gross amount of smut you seek...but I'm trying! Eventual pairings will be Austria/Prussia and Germany/Russia with brief mentions of others. So you have been warned, dear reader. _

_The title is subject to change, but for now, it's "Bye Bye Blackbird" (interesting side note, there's been debate about the meaning of this song – some attribute it to a prostitute getting out of 'the business')._

_The name of Roderich's cabaret is called The Supper Club. Traditional supper clubs were social clubs with a high class image. Obviously, Roderich's is **not** that kind of club._

_All lyrics at the beginning of each chapter are from 'The Metro,' by Berlin._

_Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own it._

_Reads/reviews are much appreciated ^_^_

* * *

_I'm alone, sitting with my empty glass..._

**Berlin, 1924**

It had been a decent crowd for a Tuesday night. Roderich leaned against the bar, closing out the evening's earnings – sixty percent for the House and forty percent to be divided amongst his performers at the end of the week.

Yes, fairly decent indeed.

Roderich had to admit the fact his little club could even draw a crowd during the week was remarkable. A year ago, The Supper Club could barely hold its own against the other cabarets. Roderich fought to keep performers, writing bad cheques to his creditors while giving the girls the meager House takings. Then that bitch Inge began demanding a higher cut, and what could he do? She _was_ his star singer, the only reason they had any customers. He _had_ to keep her, though it nearly bankrupted him.

His shows weren't _bad – _the performances were solid, the costumes tastefully revealing. They simply lacked originality – something he'd often been criticized for during his days as a conservatory student. He needed a hook. Something to draw the audience in. Something none of the other clubs had.

He found it after a fortuitous encounter with a pretty little Spanish boy named Antonio.

Inge had been demanding _more_ money, and his creditors, sick of his excuses, began taking their payment out on him.

That night he'd been lucky – only a bloody nose and lip and bruised ribs. Not like he hadn't been through worse. Still, the threat he could lose everything hung over him, blindly driving him down _that_ alley, needing a good fuck to clear his head.

And then he saw Antonio, silhouetted by the full moon's silver light. A thin halo of caramel skin setting him apart from his alabaster companions.

Roderich wanted him. He had no money, but _God_ he wanted him. And he would _take_ him. He would take Antonio and promise to keep him all night and reward him handsomely for his services. Then Roderich would leave him before morning. He had done it before. Roderich's manner – his aristocratic grace, his calm, reassuring speech – made people trust him. And he had always been able to spot a fool. Antonio, handsome as he was, was still a fool.

That night, though, when the Spaniard saw the bruises, something snapped in Roderich. Maybe he'd been held by that soft gaze for too long. Maybe he'd been bewitched by those magnificent green eyes. Whatever it was, it broke his cool, detached countenance, and Roderich cried. Cried in front of a complete stranger, telling Antonio everything, and Antonio held him until he fell asleep.

In the morning, Roderich awoke to the press of warm skin against his own. Antonio stroked his hair, singing a Spanish song low and deep. Roderich leaned into the other's chest, feeling it thrum against him. He asked Antonio to sing louder. The Spaniard obliged.

Antonio had an incredible range, going from baritone to tenor and quite possibly countertenor if he was pushed.

Through the still half sleep filled haze coupled with the dreams he'd had the night before and the Spaniard's mesmerizing voice, an idea struck Roderich.

He asked if Antonio would like to sing at his club – in women's clothes. The time was more than right to broaden his audience, topaccept the growing subculture of which he'd been a part for nearly a decade (or, if he was honest with himself, his whole life.) Roderich was certain Antonio could capture a crowd, and his svelte physique paired with that elusive voice would keep the straighter patrons guessing well into the night. Antonio agreed and admitted, with a laugh, when he was a boy he used to try on his sisters' skirts when no one was home.

In a matter of months, Roderich fired Inge, turned his finances around, and the garrulous Antonio took over as the master of ceremonies (dressed as a man) before darting backstage and re-emerging as "Antonia" – the star of Roderich's cabaret.

Antonio/Antonia proved an instant hit. Roderich found his hook. He booked more drag performers until they dominated his line-up, keeping only a few of the regular girls for the "straights."

Roderich allowed himself a brief smile as he tucked that night's House earnings in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Not bad indeed for a Tuesday.

He put the performers' cut in the safe under the bar, tucking it away with Monday's earnings and noticing the pile from tonight was far larger. Roderich's smile grew wider. Friday was payday for the girls. They would surely be in for a real treat this week.

Roderich poured himself a tumbler of crème de menthe schnapps. It seemed Berlin was finally waking up. The economy was on the mend. Groups of artists and intellectuals emerged from the chaos of the previous years – a bourgeoisie class demanding the new, the avant-garde, and Roderich was all too happy to give it to them, provided the capital continued to flow in his favor….

A throbbing ache in his leg interrupted Roderich's reverie. He groaned to himself, taking his tumbler and limping over to the piano by the stage. He lowered himself onto the bench with a relieved sigh. Fucking shrapnel. The army surgeon said to use a cane whenever the flare-ups started. But he was twenty-eight now, still in the prime of his life. He shouldn't need a cane to walk. He wasn't a fucking cripple. He was just unfortunate...

Well, fortunate than most….

At least it wasn't his right leg, so he could still press the piano pedals comfortably enough….

And that was his consolation prize for fighting in the Great War!

How comforting to know, despite everything he'd lost – his wealth, his estate, his place at the conservatory – _how_ comforting to know he could still play the piano in this shithole club for his moronic customers.

Lacking originality indeed! Oh, how he'd _love_ to take his compositions to the conservatory _now. _How he'd glory to see the horrified looks in their grey faces at the discordant sounds spewing from his keyboard.

Beauty had become a thing of the past. The Dadaists had it right: art is shit. And he profited magnificently as a shit-peddler.

Roderich sipped his schnapps.

When did he become so cynical?

Another throb.

Oh, yes…_that_.

He never proclaimed himself a soldier. He was never one for hunting or fishing or _any_ activity requiring physical prowess. That was why he spent hours playing piano as a child. That was why he went to the conservatory. That was why, for two years, his family's influence kept him out of that damned war. He knew he was canon fodder the moment they got him. But somehow he survived, returning from the Italian Campaign with a wonderfully mangled and shattered leg and a newfound cynicism.

Roderich downed the remaining alcohol, resting his fingers on the black and white keys. He stared at them, wondering if he could still play his old repertoire from memory. It had been so long, and the music he played for the cabaret shows was laughably easy and damnably catchy. Roderich feared, for a moment, the jazz tunes he'd been playing had replaced his beloved Beethoven and Chopin.

He let his fingers wander over the keys, listening to the notes as his right and left hand worked their way up the keyboard, keeping an octave apart. A slurred C, followed by E and G. But there was something between the E and G, wasn't there? Something not quite right, but it brings the piece together….

What was it?

Ah, yes. A-flat.

Then after the G, move up to middle C on the right, with the left hand following….

He was playing Chopin.

Slowly, the introduction, deceptive in its serenity, yet ever building in intensity until the keys became fire and his hands were gasoline, possessed by a mad, frenetic force. His fingers danced in the upper keys, little tongues of flame licking the tips. His shoulders tensed. His hands moved down to the lower register, down into the deep red pit. Down into Hell. Down into the Darkness to seek out the Light. To seek an answer – the answer to question at the beginning. He was nearly there. The Darkness began to abate. Only a few more measures until the Light. Until his answer.

Roderich's eyes burned, wide and alive and half-manic, behind his glasses. His mouth watered – the metallic taste of desire dampening his throat as he sought the finish….

A knock from the club door, sharp and stinging against the dark notes, brought his performance to an abrupt finish.

Roderich's fingers slammed against the keys, a cacophony of notes destroying his ending.

"What!" he bellowed, chest heaving in anger.

The knock came again, though haltingly this time.

He wondered if it was Antonio. Wondered if he'd forgotten something….

Roderich's shoulders slumped as he pushed himself up from the piano bench. He snatched up his tumbler and limped up to the bar to re-fill it. If it was Antonio, he could wait.

A third knock. This one slower, almost teasing in a way.

"I _heard_ you," Roderich snipped.

He smoothed his hair back and reached behind the bar for his cane as a pre-caution.

Roderich wrenched open the door. "What in God's name is so blasted important - ?"

"I thought you had better manners, Specs," came a drawling reply.

Roderich's eyes widened at the sight – the face – that greeted him. A face he hadn't seen since before his divorce.

A pale head of hair shone silver beneath the cold, moonlit sky. A slanting grin animated the man's deathly pale visage. Despite the dark, Roderich could see a faint light shining from the other's odd eyes. Eyes that looked red when the light hit them just right, Roderich remembered. He adjusted his glasses in an effort to collect himself before addressing the other man.

"Gilbert," he said flatly. "What are you doing here?"

"Straight to the point, as usual," Gilbert sighed. "Ain't you gonna invite me in first? Wine and dine me, like the good old days?"

Roderich blocked the door, knuckles whitening as he gripped his cane tighter.

"C'mon, Roddy," Gilbert said, giving Roderich's shoulder a playful jab. "It's been three years. You're not still angry are you?"

"I'm _always_ angry…."

"Ha! Always the joker, Roddy." Gilbert slapped Roderich's cheek. "That's what I miss about ya."

Roderich's firm stance faltered the minute Gilbert touched his face. The other man, seeing his opportunity, pushed his way into the club, nearly knocking Roderich over.

"Oh, sorry. Forgot about that leg o' yours."

"…I'm sure," Roderich muttered darkly as he closed the door.

A small cough, coming from the street, startled him. Whirling back around, Roderich pulled the door open once more and blinked.

Staring back up at him was a boy. A Gilbert in miniature, though admittedly, his hair wasn't as pale, and his eyes were blue.

"Lutz!" Gilbert hissed. "I told you to stick close. Get your ass in here!" He grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged him into the club.

Roderich heard the child mumble something about not wanting to be rude.

"Christ, if anyone sees you out this late, they'll have my head." Gilbert steered the boy to a table by the stage, plunking him into a chair.

"I could've stayed home…."

"It's not that I don't trust you_,_ Lutz, it's just I don't trust other people."

"But I have school – "

"So, do your homework."

"I finished it."

"Then read, or something."

"I don't have a book – "

"Excuse me!" Roderich interjected.

Both blondes snapped their eyes up to his, looking at him like he'd just arrived.

"Just what the _hell_ is going on? Gilbert, who _is_ this boy?"

The older blonde's shoulders sagged. A pained look darkened his eyes for a moment as he chewed his bottom lip.

Gilbert turned back to the boy and muttered, "Lutz, just…just put your head down and go to sleep, okay? I gotta talk to Roderich."

The boy nodded, crossing his arms on top of the table and resting his head. Gilbert stroked his hair, face softening as he watched the boy's eyes slide shut.

"Pour us a drink, would ya, Specs?" Gilbert said, suddenly jerking his head up, a cocky smirk replacing his gentle smile.

Roderich was still anchored to the door. "I only serve _paying_ customers."

"What makes you think I won't?"

"Because, Gilbert, your reputation precedes you, wherever you go."

"Well, then, would you serve an old friend?"

"Friend!" Roderich scoffed, limping towards Gilbert. "We shared a trench – "

"Among other things…." Gilbert sneered.

"I was _married_! And then you…you – "

"_I_ merely showed you what everyone else already _knew_ and what you failed to see."

"You ruined me! I _came_ here because of you. I left Eisenstadt because of you. I gave up _everything_ to come here and play piano in this stupid club because of you!"

"I forced you to stop pretending! You can't have the best of both worlds. Eventually, you'd have to choose. I just helped precipitate it. Admit it, Roddy. This way is easier."

Roderich stopped, afraid of what he might do to Gilbert if he got too close….

He would throttle him (he would hold him close.)

He would punch his face (he would kiss his cheek.)

He would knee him in the groin (he would run his hands through his hair.)

He would press his lips to that crooked grin….

No. He would surely strangle Gilbert. The man who cost him everything. He would choke him until the light left those strange, beautiful eyes.

Roderich's fingers twitched around his cane. He never entertained the idea of killing another man, even during the war. But ex-lovers could not be considered human, could they? No. They were demons sent back from hell to torment the living. _Why, in God's name, did he have to show up now? What more does he want from me?_

Christ, he needed a drink.

Roderich hobbled up to the bar.

Gilbert, taking this as a tentative invitation, followed behind, keeping a good distance between himself and the Austrian's cane.

Roderich settled himself behind the bar, taking out a cigarette case and pouring himself a double whiskey.

"So…I see you changed the name o' this place." Gilbert cautiously approached the bar, hands stuck deep in his front pockets.

"Yes," Roderich said, concentrating on lighting a cigarette. He leaned against the back counter, eyes guarded as he watched Gilbert.

"Sounds kind of American, don't it?"

"Well, what with the popularity of jazz and mass consumerism, it seemed appropriate," was the clipped response.

Gilbert slowly nodded. His efforts at small talk were back-firing.

Awkward silence fell over them.

Gilbert eased himself onto a bar stool, resting his arms on the bar top. He began picking at a cuticle on his forefinger, pulling until the skin finally gave way. A droplet of crimson pooled to the surface. He stuck the finger in his mouth to stop the bleeding then dropped both hands to his lap. He tucked his hands under his legs, hunching his shoulders, and looking around the club as if it was his first time there.

Gilbert's fidgeting proved unnerving. Roderich stubbed out his cigarette, mustering up every ounce of disdain he possessed.

"Why are you here, Gilbert?"

Gilbert's eyes stopped their sweep of the club. He brought them up to meet Roderich's briefly before twisting around to stare at the boy sleeping at the table.

Roderich followed his gaze. He knew Gilbert's actions. He knew when the Gilbert needed to tell him something but his pride prevented him from doing it. This was one of those times. Roderich should have known. Gilbert could be _so_ childish….

"Who is he?" Roderich asked, keeping his tone firm. Gilbert always responded better to authority….

The blonde slowly turned back around, eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the bar top's surface.

"…My brother." Gilbert began chewing his lip again.

Roderich's face blanched. In their years together during the war and the brief time after, he never once assumed Gilbert had a family. For the longest time, Roderich was quite sure the pale man was an apparition, something conjured up by his mind to help him through those dark days spent in the mud. Gilbert came and went as he saw fit. Nothing, not even _he_, Roderich, could anchor that man. And Gilbert certainly never mentioned anything regarding parents or a sibling. Roderich couldn't even remember seeing the other man write a letter home during their time in the trenches.

"How old is he?" Roderich asked.

"Eleven. He was definitely a surprise to Mutti und Vati." Gilbert's lips parted with a dry chuckle. "So much so, the old man died a month before he was born."

Gilbert clasped his hands in his lap, staring down at them.

Roderich reached under the bar for his best whiskey and poured two doubles, handing one to Gilbert.

"And your mother?" he asked, careful to keep his voice casual now, or else Gilbert would shut him out.

"…Died in December of '17."

"I'm sorry to hear it." Roderich went around to the other side of the bar, sitting beside Gilbert. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Gilbert.

They sat in silence for some moments, the occasional clink of a glass filling in the spaces some words simply could not.

"…He's the reason I left," Gilbert said at length.

"Who?"

"Ludwig." Gilbert nodded over at the boy. "Last I heard, before I got shipped from the Eastern front to Italy, was that our mother had sent him to stay with her brother. She was in bad health even before I left, so it was for the best. I meant to tell ya, Roddy. Swear to God, I did. But…I didn't think it'd take this long…."

"Gilbert, what -?"

"I _had_ to go to Dresden. I had to get him! I knew if I told you, you'd want me to wait, but I couldn't wait. I had to get him away from that drunk sonuvabitch. I shoulda got him the _minute_ I got home. But, Uncle was made a decent living. Lutz was well-provided for. Went to a good school and everything. And I got to visit him, a least. I didn't want to mess it up. I always mess shit up. Then our neighbor writes me after I moved up to Berlin. Says Lutz's lookin' skinnier, sicker. One time she swore she saw a black eye. I know Uncle liked to drink, but I never thought he'd turn into one of those _mean_ drunks, you know? I guess he snapped one day…Lutz didn't tell me everything, just that Uncle yelled a lot, saying what an ingrate Lutz was and ho he was making Uncle go bankrupt 'cause he had to take care of him for his sister. But when I went to go get him, that crazy bastard wouldn't give him up! I fought so hard to get him, but the courts refused. They said he was 'in a stable living environment.'" Gilbert snorted, downing the rest of his whiskey.

"You should have come to me," Roderich said quietly. "I could have paid off that judge – "

"Roddy, you barely had enough money for rent after your folks cut you off."

"I had some stashed away. I bought this place from the owner, you know."

Gilbert grinned. "Knew you were holding out on me. Stingy bastard."

"How did you get Ludwig back? Gilbert, you didn't kidnap him did you?" A note of panic colored Roderich's voice. That would be just like Gilbert, bringing the police to his doorstep….

"Nah. Lucky for me Uncle dropped dead of a heart attack a year later. I took Lutz and we moved back to Berlin."

Two years. Gilbert had been back for _two years_, and he was just _now_ showing up? What the hell had he been doing in that time? Well, not that Roderich cared. They had been through, right? Doesn't one person leaving usually signal the end? Even if Gilbert's departure was for moral reasons, the fact remained he _left_ Roderich. Left him and made _no_ attempt to contact him. Yes. They were through. If Gilbert had come here to offer his apologies, he could keep them. Roderich had let him in once, and once was all it took to be betrayed.

The silence in the room returned to that awkward level. Roderich swirled the dregs of his whiskey around in his glass, pretending to be interested in their contents while busying himself mentally by replacing all of the internal defenses Gilbert removed the minute he began his story. He was afraid to speak, fearing the delicate wall around him would shatter. But it was Gilbert who cut through the quiet this time.

"You asked me why I was here, Specs."

Roderich felt himself nod.

"Well, word on the street is, this is the place to come for work."

Roderich faced Gilbert, tilting his head back to stare down at the pale blonde beside him, a haughty sneer in place. Old habits were often a source of comfort. "Gilbert, surely you haven't degraded yourself _that_ low by resorting to prostitution?"

"No! 'Course not! I just meant…I heard this place was doin' well, and…well, you know I can't sing or dance…but if you needed a doorman or somethin', you know I'd be good for it."

Roderich considered the offer. There _were_ some nights the crowd could get a bit rowdy. It usually fizzled before escalating, but it still made Roderich nervous. And he _knew_ Gilbert was more than capable of handling unruly masses….

"Be here tomorrow night at eight," Roderich said.

"Serious?"

Roderich cast Gilbert a sidelong glance that said 'Don't ask me again.'

"Shit, that's fuckin' awesome!" Gilbert leapt from his seat, throwing an arm around Roderich's neck. "Thank you, Roddy."

The pale man went to wake up his sleeping brother when a thought occurred to him: "What should I do about Lutz? I don't want to leave him alone."

"He can stay backstage. The girls will look after him."

Gilbert's face broke into a wide grin. He turned back around and gently shook his brother's shoulder. "C'mon, Lutz. Time to go."

The boy muttered something incomprehensible, trying to swat away Gilbert's hand.

"Don't make me carry you," Gilbert teased, poking Ludwig in the ribs. The boy swatted Gilbert's hand again, burying his face into his arms.

Gilbert sighed and scooped the child up in his arms, heading for the door.

Roderich saw him out.

At the door, Gilbert paused, facing Roderich.

"Thanks once again. You don't know how much you saved me."

The blonde extended a hand. Roderich took it, the dry, cracked skin so familiar beneath his touch. For a moment, he stared down at their hands, clasped in a gesture so formal it seemed strange for them.

Roderich hesitated.

They should be sharing a kiss, not a handshake.

He took a tentative step forward. But Gilbert's hand was already slipping from his as the pale blonde turned and headed out into the night.

Roderich watched Gilbert's retreating form, shutting the door only when he could no longer see that head of almost-white hair.

Roderich returned to the bar, taking his place on his stool. Two empty glasses stood before him, light shining through them, reflecting jagged shapes on the counter. His eyes caught on Gilbert's glass. On the fingerprint smudges and ghost impression left by a pair of chapped lips.

Was he ready to do this?

He had no choice.

The deal had been made.

He reached for his glass and the bottle of whiskey beside it. He filled the tumbler, admiring the brown liquid. _One more to help you sleep, son._

Roderich raised the glass to his lips (glowing red under the house lights), drinking deeply.


	2. Chapter 2

_My four walls follow me through my past_

* * *

**Italy, 1918**

When he awoke, he was immediately aware of two things: the chaos of ringing bullets and shouting men no longer assaulted his ears; and his legs, he felt quite certain, were on fire.

Roderich was in a hospital.

In a bed.

The itch of overly starched sheets beneath him.

His fatigues had been replaced by a fading smock and drawstring pants. His left leg hung suspended from a pulley and sling contraption. A thick plaster cast encased it up to his thigh. The other leg was covered in gauze bandages, hiding black stitches underneath.

But the thing that irritated him the most was that he _could not move._

He didn't know how long he'd been lying like this, but upon waking and finding himself prone, with one leg in the air, an immediate discomfort set in.

He wanted to move. To rest his back against the pillows.

After his discovery was when the razor-like sensations began. One thousand searing blades pounded through his raised leg, matching the pulse beating against the side of his neck. The right one felt like mere pinpricks compared to the pain in its brother.

Roderich twisted his hands in the bed sheets, jaw clenched against the pain. He would not yell out. He was not that weak.

He needed a nurse.

Roderich carefully eased himself up onto his elbows. The hospital was a hazy blur of white and flesh colored shapes. His glasses were gone.

He felt dizzy. Discerning the fuzzy shapes was giving him a headache.

He turned his head to see if his glasses might be near.

A glint of metal on his bedside table. He reached out a shaky hand.

A nurse saw him.

In seconds she was beside his bed, easing him back down with a soothing voice. But her words were lost for the pounding in his leg and head.

Roderich lay back against the hard mattress, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, the nurse was still beside him. She was close and he could see she was older. Perhaps in her fifties.

She asked what he needed, and he uttered a feeble "Glasses."

She reached over to the table by his bed and held them close enough for him to see. One of the lenses had cracked and the metal frames were as twisted as he felt.

He groaned.

His glasses were broken.

He couldn't see shit.

The sheets beneath him itched.

He wanted to move.

He wondered if _this_ was what it was like to be Gilbert. Restless. Feeling trapped in your own skin. Unable to move….

Where was Gilbert? Had he gotten hit too?

No. Impossible. The man never got hit, right? He was invincible. Still, where _was _Gilbert? Here? He couldn't be here….

Roderich tried to prop himself back up on his elbows. The nurse placed a firm hand on his chest to stop him.

"You need to be still. You're lucky, you know."

Roderich snorted, turning his head away from her. "Oh really? How's that?"

"You nearly lost your leg. Surgeon managed to save it."

"Fantastic," he bit out.

Another stab of pain and his hands curled into fists.

"How does it feel?"

Roderich whipped his head back around, eyes narrowing to slits. _How does it feel? How the hell do you think!_

The nurse read his response on his face. "I'll get you something for the pain, although I probably shouldn't. You've been doped up pretty good already."

She left, returning shortly with a syringe.

"Morphine," she said. "Really should be saving this stuff. There are a lot worse cases than you – "

Roderich snorted again.

" – but you'll definitely have some rehabilitation to go through once you get home. I mean for your leg, not morphine!" The nurse tittered.

Roderich wanted to take his cast and beat her over the head with it. He was in pain! And she was _laughing!_ Laughing like a schoolchild seeing a classmate trip and fall into a mud puddle.

Roderich grit his teeth, biting back insults.

_Plebeian._

Not like that nurse would understand the meaning anyway….

"Well, then. Here we go," the nurse said cheerily as she prepped his arm for the injection. "One more to help you sleep, son."

The nurse left him.

Left him. Alone. To stare at the white blur that was his leg in the white blur that was this damned hospital.

White.

Everything so white.

Like Gilbert's hair.

Like Gilbert's skin….

Roderich's eyelids began to droop.

So dazzlingly white.

Where was Gilbert? He couldn't be here. He _isn't_ here. His unit transferred, remember?

Yes. Transferred. That explains it.

Roderich's eyelashes brushed his cheeks.

Everything was so white. There were no shapes anymore.

So soft and white.

He couldn't see.

The white hurt his eyes.

Gilbert had not been there to save him this time….

* * *

**Austria, 1919**

Roderich huffed and grunted from the effort. The _mere_ effort of walking across the room.

Brown hair clung to his sweat-dampened forehead.

Elizaveta's sweet voice rung in his ears coaxing him along.

His fists tightened around the two canes, arms shaking from holding his weight. He _could not_ use his good leg. No matter how tempting. It acted as light support as he dragged the bad one forward, gingerly setting it down before putting his weight on it.

It felt like it was being ripped open all over again.

From his periphery, he saw an armchair. Not even two paces to his left.

Beads of sweat rolled into his eyes and down his neck.

The armchair taunted him.

This was too much….

"I can't!" Roderich collapsed into the chair, winded from the effort.

He looked up to find he'd barely gone halfway across the room.

Elizaveta clucked her tongue impatiently, rising from her seat at the opposite end.

"You can't stay in this wheelchair forever," she said, wheeling the wretched thing over to Roderich.

"I _know_," he spat. "I don't like this any more than you do. But it still feels like I'm being stabbed with hot knives every time."

"The doctor said – "

"To _hell_ with what he said! It bloody well _hurts_, Elizaveta!"

Elizaveta folded her arms, watching Roderich maneuver himself into the wheelchair.

"You're becoming dependent on that thing," she snipped.

Roderich threw her a scathing look, reaching into his pocket and extracting a cigarette case and matches.

"And I don't think _that's_ going to help!" Elizaveta waved her hands in an elaborate gesture, fanning away the cloud of smoke her husband exhaled.

"You're aggravating me." Roderich wheeled his chair over to the window, staring out at the frost-covered grounds of his great-aunt's estate.

"Well that makes two of us."

Elizaveta's face flushed. _That was too harsh_, she thought, eyes dropping. They caught on her skirt. She straightened the line, smoothed out the wrinkles – hands searching for _something_ to do. Something to keep her occupied. To keep out the awful thoughts – the truth – that she and Roderich both knew. But she was not ready to admit it. Not yet.

The clock in the hallway counted away the seconds loudly in the choking silence.

Roderich lit another cigarette, gaze ever fixed out the window.

Away from _her._

Elizaveta went over to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Roderich tensed beneath her touch.

If she felt it, Elizaveta made no sign, resolutely keeping her hand in place. "I know this is hard for you. It's hard for me, too. I'm _tying_ to be patient. But some days it seems like you've just given up. Some days…it feels like I'm living with a complete stranger."

Roderich inhaled deeply from his cigarette, doing his best not to sneer. Of _course_ she would turn this around to be about _her_….

Although, he agreed with her on one point – he _was _a stranger. To her as well as himself….

No. Not a stranger.

_Dishonest._ That was the word.

He'd been living a lie – a dream-world lie for the first twenty-odd years of his life – and now….

Now it was time to wake up.

* * *

**Austria, 1920**

Gilbert was smart. For all of his brash, horrid language, the man was definitely smart. It was why he'd been a sergeant and Roderich remained a lowly enlisted man. Money can't buy everything, after all.

Roderich stood in the hallway, leaning on his cane, a letter clutched in his thin hand. To a casual reader, it appeared harmless. Gilbert recently moved to Berlin and the letter contained his gripes – in the colorful language he used so well – about the city. Hidden between his grievances was one simple message: _I need to see you. Alone._

Roderich smiled to himself as he read it. Gilbert was never satisfied. If it was cold out and you lent him a sweater, he'd complain the wool itched. If it were overcast outside, he'd moan about how depressed it made him. If it were sunny, he'd say it was too bright.

Gilbert was restless and therein laid the attraction. He represented a world wholly opposite Roderich's need for comfort and stability. Gilbert was reckless but only with himself. He would never endanger another. He was too fiercely protective. Roderich saw that in Italy, but that's not to say knowing Gilbert was at all easy. His arrogance had a habit of overshadowing his finer points.

Gilbert arrived in Italy in mid-September of 1917 with a mixed unit of German and Austrian soldiers and already the men were calling him _der verrückte Feldwebel_ – the crazy sergeant. His tales of military exploits on the Eastern front seemed far too ridiculous to be true. For reasons unfathomable to Roderich, the men flocked to Gilbert despite his outlandish claims. Maybe it was because of his conceit. Maybe it was because of his boastings he inspired a new confidence among them. They all looked up to him.

Except Roderich.

For the first two months they knew each other, Roderich couldn't stand being anywhere near the pale blonde. Along with a slew of war-stories, Gilbert also packed an arsenal of ready-to-use wisecracks – all aimed at Roderich. The Austrian never heard him joking another man. Only him. It was why Roderich did his best to avoid Gilbert. But the pale blonde had a penchant for turning up out of nowhere.

Everything changed in November.

They were under artillery fire before dawn. Shrapnel and rock from the mountains rained down around them.

Roderich felt something heavy hit him and for a moment, he thought his time was over.

When he realized he was, in fact, alive and uninjured, he opened his eyes to find Gilbert covering him.

Covering him….

The man had thrown himself over the Austrian to better shield him.

Once the shelling stopped, Roderich asked: "Why did you do that?"

Gilbert shrugged, lighting a cigarette. "Better me than you, Specs."

Roderich nodded, though unsure why. Probably an involuntary response, like the trembling in his hands after the barrage. He wanted it to stop. He needed to _do_ something. He needed his piano. He needed –

"May I have one of those?" Roderich nodded at the cigarette dangling from Gilbert's lips.

"Didn't know you smoked, Specs."

Well….He'd promised Elizaveta after they were married he'd never smoke again. And he'd kept to it. But this was an exceptional situation. He never imagined he'd be cowering in the dirt while bits of mountain and metal fell around him. He never imagined he'd be surrounded by deafening percussive sounds that _weren't_ kettle drums. It had gone on too long. Exceptions could be made. And he'd inhale that bitter smoke sooner than going to the field hospital for shell-shock and being called a coward.

Gilbert lit another cigarette and handed it to Roderich. His fingers fumbled a bit until they remembered how to hold it.

He brought the tobacco to his lips, inhaling desperately. Greedily. As if the smoke could somehow save him.

After that, things returned to the way they'd been before the attack. Gilbert never missed a chance to throw a mocking comment at Roderich whenever the men were in earshot. However, during the quieter moments, when the men split off into their respective groups to toss about idle chatter and Roderich was alone, Gilbert always found him.

The pale man's manner changed in these moments, and Roderich felt he glimpsed the _real_ Gilbert. Not the cocky loud-mouth the men saw. Gilbert seemed tamed. Subdued. As if that strange, restless itch that drove him, had found peace for a moment.

Still, it bothered Roderich Gilbert never missed a chance to tease him. Especially when he knew the man had another side – one he was afraid to show in front of the others.

So childish.

That's what it was.

Gilbert's actions reminded Roderich of a schoolboy picking on a girl he liked. And Gilbert….

Gilbert only picked on _him…._

No. That was impossible. Roderich laughed at the thought.

Absurd. They were both _men_….

But Gilbert never taunted anyone else….

And _hadn't_ he seen another side to the pale blonde? Hadn't Gilbert willingly protected him against the falling debris?

No. That was just his nature, wasn't it?

But why him? Why _Roderich?_

_Better me than you._

Why would he think that? Friends joke with each other. It's perfectly normal behavior. And they were friends, right? Well, at least more than acquaintances, more than a casual nod of the head. They held conversations together, which possibly constituted friendship….

Social labels be damned! Why couldn't there just be a term for two men who enjoy each other's company? Why did 'friend' have to sound so intimate yet still so innocent? Wasn't there a limit, some rule, about when you could call a person a friend? Don't you have to know them for, say, five years or so? There were rules for everything, so there must be one regarding friendship – some quiet, unspoken rule only the friends knew – and since he never _had_ any, the uncertainty regarding _what_ to call their relationship mounted. Gilbert probably called everyone he met a 'friend.' He was just that type of person – loud, sociable, the guy everyone knows. And he, Roderich, was the exact opposite – quiet and observing. Elizaveta called him cold and aloof, and he used to believe her, thinking that's just how he _was._ But their conversations never amounted to anything more than "What's the cook preparing for dinner?" There was never any warmth, any longing, any anticipation – unlike when Gilbert found him and it was just the two of them. He glowed in those moments. In those moments, he would welcome the whole world in and call everyone 'friend.' He could be so much more when Gilbert was around, but when Gilbert left, the detached Roderich returned.

Friendship did not do this to people. Friends didn't change in each other's company. Friends didn't hide their friendship. So why did it seem like Gilbert only sought him out when no one else was looking? Could it possibly be something more?

Why should he care?

Why the hell should he care?

It's not like he was…jealous?

No. Not jealous. He was not jealous. He just missed that feeling only Gilbert could give him. That warmth and reassurance that he was _not_ how the world saw him. Not cold. Not distant.

But the pale blonde could not know what their conversations meant to Roderich. There was no way Gilbert actually _liked_ him any more than as a friend. Just two men forced together under unusual circumstances, fighting for their countries, to protect themselves as well as each other. Just friends.

Winter arrived in late December. The men huddled in a circle around a meager fire trying to keep warm, the mountain winds all but extinguishing the tiny flame. They passed around cigarettes, jokes, memories of home and of women.

Roderich had just finished his meal when someone called to him. "What about you, Edelstein? All those _belle donne_ in the villages….."

It was Weber. Another sergeant. He sat beside Gilbert on the opposite end of the campfire. Roderich couldn't stand him. His arrogance and recklessness matched Gilbert's, but he lacked Gilbert's concern for the men's welfare. They were just canon fodder to him.

"I beg your pardon?" Roderich said, looking up from his plate.

The men erupted in laughter.

"There's your answer!" someone said.

"We're talkin' about women. When's the last time you got some?"

"…I'm married – "

The men laughed again.

Roderich glanced around, wondering what was so funny. He caught Gilbert's eye. The blonde's face blanched upon hearing Roderich had a wife.

"So it's been a couple of years!" Weber said.

"What about you, Beilschmidt? I _know_ you've got stories. How many women?"

A slanted grin immediately erased the look of surprise on Gilbert's face. "Too many to count."

Weber laughed, clapping a hand on Gilbert's shoulder and turned his inquiries onto another man.

Gilbert stood, leaving the circle shortly thereafter. No one seemed to notice him go. Except Roderich.

Not wanting to be a part of another humiliating round of questions regarding his sex life, Roderich followed Gilbert. He needed a cigarette anyway and was short on matches.

Gilbert stopped at a small cluster of boulders sunk deep into the craggy mountain. He brushed the snow off the top of one before sitting on it and striking a match to life.

"You tailin' me, Specs?"

His voice was gruff. Roderich halted a few feet back.

"N-no. Well, yes."

"Which one is it?"

Roderich huffed, shifting his feet. "I need a light."

"Last one," Gilbert said, cocking an eyebrow and holding up the diminishing flame.

Roderich hurried forward, cupping his hands around the matchstick.

His cigarette lit. Thank God.

Roderich exhaled a relieved puff, leaning against one of the taller rocks. They smoked in silence for a while, Gilbert's eyes trained on the men around the fire.

Gilbert spoke first, gravelly voice cutting through the still air. "Got some bad news for you."

"What's that?"

"I might get transferred. I've been hearing rumors."

Roderich nodded solemnly.

What could he say to that? Friends never told one another "goodbye." That word was poison. The implications were too great. Goodbye signified finality. Goodbye meant you would never see the other person again, and oh, how he _hoped_ he'd see Gilbert again. Their conversations simply could not end. But, given their circumstances, it was a foolish thing to believe.

"…So, I guess I'll have to find someone else to bum matches from," Roderich tried to laugh.

"I guess."

"Is that why you left the group?"

"Nah, not 'cause of that." Gilbert stood, toeing out his cigarette and picking up his rucksack. "Got something for you, Specs."

He reached in the bag and pulled out a bottle of wine and handed it to Roderich. "Don't know how good it is, but I figured what the hell. "

"What's this for?"

"I thought we could celebrate."

"Celebrate _what_, exactly?" _You leaving?_

"Christmas. At least I think it's Christmas. Well, should be close enough. You want first swig?"

Roderich stared at the bottle, a small frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Sorry I ain't got glasses," Gilbert said, misinterpreting the look. "We'll just have to drink from the bottle."

"No, it's fine…it's just….Gilbert, I want you to promise me something." Roderich's eyes shot up, locking on the blonde's. He _had_ to tell him. Maybe not directly, but in so many words, these things can be conveyed. He would not allow their conversations to just _end._

"What's that?"

"You must promise me, when this is over…." Oh, God, why was he faltering _now?_ "…you have to promise me…." He could not look into those eyes any longer. Roderich shoved the bottle back at Gilbert and began searching his pockets for a pencil and paper. Ah, in his shirt pocket of course.

"You _must_ write to me when this is over. At the very least. I-if you, perhaps, ever wanted to visit, th-that would be acceptable too. But please write. I-I couldn't bear the thought…with everything you've done, I would like to know you got out of this all right."

Roderich scrawled his address on a slip of paper and pushed it into Gilbert's palm.

It was an imprudent thing to believe, that they both would somehow make it home unscathed. He knew it and Gilbert knew it. But just having that belief – that they would be okay – made it seem much more possible. It was the only thing Roderich had, and he would cling to it. Like a sailor clinging to driftwood. Anything to stay afloat in the turbulent sea of war.

Gilbert tucked the paper in his coat pocket, a smile softening the harsh lines of his face. "I promise."

"Now," Gilbert said, "what say we open this?"

Roderich nodded and watched as Gilbert took out a pocketknife and jammed it in the cork. After some twisting, he extracted the cork with a _pop_ and handed the wine back to Roderich.

The Austrian took a taste. It was musty. Mellow. He took another swig, feeling a flush creeping up to his face. It really wasn't half bad for a wine he knew Gilbert had simply grabbed off the shelf from one of the houses down below.

They drank in the echoing silence for some time before Gilbert spoke again.

"I lied to you, Specs."

Roderich coughed, nearly choking on the wine. "About what?"

"I still got some matches," Gilbert smirked, reaching into his rucksack and pulling out a box. He struck one and lit a cigarette, the amber light illuminating Roderich's anxious face.

"You got wine on you," Gilbert said. He reached out a pale hand, rubbing his thumb over Roderich's chin.

The Austrian's first instinct would have been to pull away. He _should_ have pulled away, but something (the wine, perhaps) kept him rooted to the spot. Gilbert's touch was gentle. Not what he had expected.

Roderich blinked. What _had_ he expected? Rough skin, strong fingers? Plying at the cursed spot like a mother scrubbing a child's face? Maybe. Definitely not this gentle caress.

His head felt fuzzy.

Gilbert was touching his chin.

Touching his face.

It was too hot. His face was burning. He'd had too much wine. Elizaveta always said he was a lightweight….

Gilbert held Roderich's chin, thumb brushing just under the curve of his lip, slowly finding its way up.

He should pull away. He didn't like physical contact. Not really. But _why?_ Why was it so hard to simply move? Why was Gilbert touching him like this?

Gilbert's thumb brushed his lip momentarily before his hand traced around Roderich's neck, over his shoulder, snaking around his back and pulling the Austrian close.

Gilbert pressed his lips against Roderich's in a crushing kiss. It was sloppy and drunk and…_right_. God it felt so right. Despite everything. Despite the fact they were men, despite the fact he was _married_. But that had been more of a convenience for his parents, hadn't it? The Edlestein's needed an heir and, God help him, he was the only son of a dying aristocrat family. And he _never_ kissed Elizaveta the way Gilbert was kissing him – deep and longing.

He could taste Gilbert's breath – musty and sour from the wine – and it should have disgusted him. He shouldn't want that taste on his tongue, but he did.

Roderich rested a hand on Gilbert's back, the bumps and dips of taught muscle making him aware of how bony _he_ must feel to Gilbert and wondering if Gilbert cared. Elizaveta always said he was too thin. She always said he needed to eat more so it wouldn't feel like she was holding a rake. She liked huskier men, never missing a chance to point them out to Roderich every time they went somewhere and saying he needed to look like that. And for the first time, Roderich wondered why she married him.

Roderich's shoulders tensed at the thought.

"I'm sorry!" Gilbert said, pulling away.

"…No, it's no that. That was…well…that…I-I…didn't mind…." Roderich stammered, adjusting his glasses.

Gilbert's mouth cracked into a crooked grin. "Didn't mind, huh? I thought you were married, Specs?"

"No. I mean yes! Yes, I am, but…Gilbert, what _was_ that?" Roderich reached a trembling hand into his coat pocket, reaching for his crumpled pack. He needed something to do…something to help occupy his mind.

He shoved a cigarette in his mouth.

Gilbert handed him the box of matches. "Isn't it obvious?"

Roderich struck a match four times against the box before it finally lit. Damn shaking hands. But this wasn't from artillery.

"Obvious as in you kissing me? Yes, I gathered that. But what the _hell_ – "

"I _like_ you, Roderich! Jesus Christ, you need me to spell it out?"

"But I'm – "

"Married. Yeah, I know."

"_And_ a male!"

"You didn't seem to care at the time," Gilbert snorted, leaning against a rock, arms folded across his chest. "Seemed like you enjoyed it."

"I…I don't know what to say to that," Roderich said, tilting his head back in an attempt to appear haughty while secretly hoping his inner turmoil would not show on his face. Hadn't he been trying to define their relationship only a few weeks ago?

"Am I wrong?"

Roderich took a drag and blew the smoke skyward, pointedly ignoring Gilbert.

"Am I wrong?"

A term for two men who enjoy each other's company….

"Am. I. Wrong?" Gilbert snapped.

"No! You're bloody right!" Roderich stomped his foot. "I-I did like that. Very much."

Gilbert's slanted grin returned.

"Oh, would you stop that!" Roderich threw his cigarette down. "Don't you understand what this means? If anyone finds out – "

"I _am_ getting transferred, Roddy. Or did you forget?"

"No, I didn't. And what happens after?"

"After what?"

"_After_ after. When all this is over? Provided, of course, we both – "

"You makin' plans already, Specs?" Gilbert sneered.

"I meant…what do I tell my wife?"

"You don't have to tell her anything."

"Well, then, what happens to…us? Will we still be f-friends?"

"Roderich," Gilbert said, throwing an arm over the Austrian's shoulder, "there's nothing in this world that could keep me from seeing you."

* * *

**Austria, 1919**

He was shown into the drawing room by one of the servants. Its lone occupant, a woman, sat gazing out of the window, an open book lying forgotten in her lap. Her curly brunette hair was pulled back in a loose bun. Stray ringlets had worked their way out, hanging softly down her neck. Roderich had not often mentioned his wife in his letters, and when he did, he never painted her in an appealing light. Still, Gilbert could see why he married her. She was, quite simply, beautiful.

"Mr. Beilschmidt here for Master Edelstein," the servant announced.

"Then why don't you show him to my dear husband?" the woman replied, not taking her eyes from the window.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am, but he told me he wasn't to be disturbed."

"Oh very well," the woman snarled. She stood from her perch, gliding swiftly over to her guest.

The servant quickly curtseyed before scurrying from the room.

"So you're Gilbert? Roderich told me you were a sergeant." Elizaveta's green eyes narrowed, scrutinizing his rumpled shirt and muddy pant legs.

Gilbert cleared his throat. "Yes. I _was_ a sergeant."

"And what do you do now?"

"Well…." Gilbert cleared his throat again, rocking back on his heels. "I'm what you might call a bit of an entrepreneur."

Elizaveta let out a puff of a laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah!" Gilbert spat, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Elizaveta's nose wrinkled as she continued to take in the disheveled Gilbert. Her eyes fell to his dusty, worn boots.

"Did you _walk_ here, Mr. Beilschmidt? I would think someone in the business of managing business could afford an automobile, or horse at least."

Gilbert's jaw clenched. _Now_ he understood.

"Look, how is our boy, anyway?" Gilbert asked, hoping to deflect her scrutiny onto someone other than _him._

"Roderich? Still refuses to get out of that damned chair," Elizaveta tutted. "And about an hour ago, it sounded like he was bent on destroying his great-aunt's piano. The sounds that came out of it were enough to wake the dead."

As if on cue, discordant sounds echoed through the hall once more, almost like a cat pouncing up and down on the keys.

"Follow me, Mr. Beilschmidt," Elizaveta sighed, sweeping past Gilbert.

She led him across the hall, through the dining room, to the other side of the house to the music room, the pounding of keys growing ever louder.

Elizaveta knocked on the shut door. The pounding stopped.

"I told you, I'm _busy_," Roderich snarled.

"Wrecking the piano? I know, darling, and you're doing a magnificent job," Elizaveta called.

"What do you want?"

"Did you forget what day it is?"

"Just spit it out, Elizaveta! Stop mocking me for your own sick pleasure."

Elizaveta's lips pursed as she flung open the door. "You have a visitor, dear _husband!_"

She stepped back, allowing Gilbert to pass, then stalked back to the drawing room.

"Jesus, Roddy, I thought you told me you were a pianist. What was that noise?"

"That noise helps calm me when I'm irritated," Roderich said, turning in his seat at the piano. "And you're late."

"Yeah, I kinda had to ditch the train earlier than I thought. Walked the rest of the way."

Roderich sighed. "Do you need fare for the return trip?"

"No! Hell, no, Specs. I'd never bum cash off you. I got money. I'm just…selective as to when I spend it."

"I see. Well, I'm glad you made it," Roderich smiled. He pulled his wheelchair closer to the piano bench. Gilbert rushed forward to help but Roderich waved him off. He frowned watching the Austrian maneuver himself into the chair, not missing the slight shake of Roderich's thin arms.

"Y'know, Roddy, I bet I could make you get out of that chair."

"I'm sure you could," Roderich said, fixing his friend with a knowing smirk.

* * *

**Austria, 1920**

The house was _theirs._ For one glorious weekend, it was theirs. Elizaveta had gone to visit her family earlier that week and would be gone until next week. Roderich gave the servants to weekend off, giving them a nice bonus to keep their mouths shut.

Roderich took Gilbert shopping the first day, buying him a new suit to wear to dinner that night.

They ate at an outdoor café, drinking wine under the stars, before retiring back to Roderich's estate.

The sharp afternoon sun cut through the shear curtains of Roderich's bedroom. He laid beside Gilbert, curled against the pale blonde's side, one arm resting on the toned chest.

"Why don't you come to Berlin?"

"Hmmm?" Roderich cracked open a sleep-filled eye.

"Why don't you come back with me? To Berlin." Gilbert stretched an arm, resting it behind his head.

"I thought you hated it," Roderich mumbled.

"I'd hate it less if you were there."

"I can still visit – "

"No!" Gilbert hissed, pushing himself up in bed. "I'm sick of all this back and forth shit."

Roderich angled his head up, admiring the way the sun caught Gilbert's sharp features, the way it lit up his eyes, making them look almost red. His gaze fell back down to his lover's chest, thin hand tracing along the ridges left by muscle and scars. Gilbert was not immune to all things after all. Neither was Roderich. He _wanted_ to go, to flee right then with Gilbert, but –

"What would I tell Elizaveta?" Roderich asked, placing a soft kiss on Gilbert's side.

"To hell with her, Roddy! She treats you like shit and only hangs around 'cause of your money – "

"Gilbert, stop – "

"It's true. You know it is."

Roderich propped himself up against the headboard, reaching for his cigarette case by the bed.

"Who are you more afraid of, Specs? Liz or your parents?"

Roderich glared at Gilbert, a half-burnt match held between his thumb and forefinger.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, voice deadly.

"C'mon, Roderich. Don't tell me you married her 'cause you love her. It was for your parents, right? Well, what would happen if you got a divorce, hm? Would they write you off completely?"

"I'm not bound by them," Roderich spat.

"Then come with me!"

"These things take _time_, Gilbert. I'd have to figure out a way to break the news to Elizaveta – "

"Break _what_ news, dear husband?" Elizaveta pushed open the door to their bedroom.

Gilbert bolted up in bed, drawing the sheets over his bare torso.

"D-darling! You're home early. I th-thought you'd be gone 'til Tuesday – " Roderich began.

"Don't give me that! I found these – " she held up a shirt and pair of pants in one hand " – in the hall. And I knew they were too big for you Roddy."

Gilbert cast a sidelong glance at Roderich before silently slipping out of bed, using the bed sheet to cover him.

"I-I can explain, Liz – " Gilbert began, cautiously approaching the fuming brunette.

"Then start!"

"You see…this is…well, it's…all my fault…." Gilbert slowly reached out to grab his pants and shirt held fast in Elizaveta's grip.

"Oh, I'm _sure!_" she scoffed, throwing his clothes on the ground with one hand and swinging a frying pan out from behind her back with the other.

Gilbert ducked, the pan narrowly missing his head. He scooped up his clothes and ran from the house, Elizaveta close behind and still swinging the pan.

"I'll see ya in Berlin, Roddy!" Gilbert called as he rounded to staircase and flew out the front door.

* * *

_**A/N** Whew! Longest. Chapter. Ever! Muwahaha, but it was fun to write! Roderich, you're such a tease…but he won't be all peaches-and-cream later (all I can say is, he holds a grudge like a motherf*cker). So, if you can't tell, this part skipped around a bit. Hope it wasn't too confusing._

_And thank you to all the wonderful readers/favoriters/reviewers of this story! (Danube, I wish I could PM you.) You guys keep me going ^_^_


	3. Chapter 3

_You wore white…_

**Berlin 1920**

"So, whaddya think?" Gilbert asked, bobbing up and down like an excited schoolchild.

Roderich stared up at the building, its exterior less than impressive. Black smears from smog stained the crumbling brick façade and cracks ran throughout a few of the windowpanes – one leading to a hole that most likely had been created by a bullet. The only reason the "jazz club" hadn't collapsed, it seemed, was the amount of grime holding it together.

"…It – " Roderich began. He looked down at himself and suddenly felt overdressed in his best navy blue suit, the leather portfolio filled with Beethoven and Czerny and Mahler a dead weight in his hands. He wondered if the owner would even know who Mahler was.

Roderich swallowed, hefting the portfolio close to his chest. "It doesn't look like my kind of place."

Gilbert groaned, rolling his eyes. "Sure it is, Specs. You're a pianist, right? And they're lookin' for a _pianist_. What more d'you want?"

Roderich clutched the leather bag tighter, mustering what little patience was left him. "Gilbert, this is a _jazz_ club. I don't – I can't p-play jazz!"

"What'd you call that racket I heard when I came to see you last year, hm? _That,_ my dear Roddy, was jazz."

"That – that was nonsense! I was upset. I…I didn't know what I was playing!"

"So just do it again."

"_How?_" Roderich exploded, fighting the urge to throttle his companion.

"You're pissed off now, aren't you?"

"Yes," Roderich bit out. "You're exasperating me."

"Good." Gilbert shoved the Austrian through the door. "I'm all the inspiration you'll ever need!" he called as the battered wooden door swung shut.

Roderich blinked in the dim light, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and hoping maybe, _just_ maybe, the interior would not prove as disappointing as the bullet-riddled exterior.

It was.

The inside was decorated in what once must have been vibrant red carpeting and gold fixtures and harlequin patterned wallpaper; however, left to the ravages of age and ill-care, the gold became tarnished and the red carpet had faded to a salmon pink. The pattern on the wallpaper was only visible in the darkest corners.

Roderich stepped further inside. He could kill Gilbert for bringing him here. But he'd promised he would audition. The club owner was one of Gilbert's good friends, after all; although now Roderich was beginning to question just how well Gilbert knew this fellow, or if he knew him at all. The Austrian understood now why Gilbert seemed so evasive when asked about the "audition" and his "contact." He knew Roderich would refuse.

Well….

He couldn't blame Gilbert. All of Roderich's other attempts to secure a position doing what he loved had failed – the orchestra, the university, the theater, and he flat out would not set foot in another church so long as he lived. So what else was there, really, for him to turn to? Whoring himself out to a jazz club playing popular music for the masses.

Roderich checked his wristwatch. Being the middle of the day, the club was empty. Still, he expected someone to have greeted by now. He didn't like being late, except to social gatherings when arriving twenty minutes after the start of the event was seen as acceptable. He decided if no one came to greet him after five minutes, he would leave.

Roderich hobbled down from the foyer onto the main floor. Tables and chairs were arranged around a parquet wood dance floor. The smell of tobacco hung heavy in the air. Roderich's throat itched. It was worse than when Gilbert stayed up all night drinking and smoking and playing cards with his friends in their apartment. At least they had to courtesy to open the windows. The smell in _this_ place was as ground in as some of the more questionable stains in the carpet.

Roderich's hand fluttered up to his mouth as he tried to stifle the sharp cough that escaped his lips. A movement off to his left caught his attention.

A man leaned over the bar perusing a newspaper. His shirt was unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up against the August heat. A small fan whirred on the bar top but could not dispel the growing sweat circles forming on the man's undershirt. An ashtray full of cigarette butts rested in front of him while a freshly lit cigarette dangled from his mouth, adding to the sunk-in smell. Upon seeing Roderich, the man stood and walked over with a surprising swiftness.

Roderich was reminded briefly of an ape. The man's long arms swung in an exaggerated manner back and forth – almost as if he was swimming through air – as he ambled over. Roderich assumed the man must have been in his forties, based off his sprightly gait, but his pickled face and grey hair made him look much older – the result of heavy smoking and drinking, no doubt. Beetle-black eyes shone out of creases of skin as the man studied the Austrian.

"You the pianist?" the man asked. His voice was a scratched record.

Roderich cleared his throat again. "Ye-yes."

"Well, there she is." The man gestured with a withered arm over to the piano by the stage. "Play me somethin'."

Suppressing a sigh at his potential employer's informal reception, Roderich drew himself up to his full height and limped towards the stage. He would make the best of this. It didn't have to be permanent. He _was_ a talented musician. Something else was bound to come along….

"How'd ya hurt your leg?"

Roderich's back tensed.

_Of course…._

"…The war," he managed to say between tight lips.

"Ah," was all the man said.

_As if _he_ understood…._

Roderich settled himself on the bench, resting his portfolio beside it. He knew he wouldn't need it, and the man's next comment doubly ensured it.

"You don't look like a jazz player."

Roderich felt those beady black eyes sweep over him once more – over his neatly styled hair, his flawless blue suit, his polished shoes….

"I studied classical performance and composition at the Mozarteum in Salzburg."

"Well, Gil said you was good," the man shrugged.

Roderich laughed grimly to himself. Yes, his years of practice and study since the age of five, his attendance to one of Austria's most renowned conservatories, reduced him to that one simple word: good. He was just good. This man could not know the long hours his mother had him practice after school – hours sometimes dragging on until midnight or later until he got a piece right. This man did not know the humiliation he felt at being called a "practical performer who lacked passion and originality." In short, this man did not know what it was to be a musician. All he knew was Roderich played piano. And that was "good."

The man dragged a chair over, perching himself beside the piano, and lit a cigarette. "You know the song 'Some of These Days?'"

Roderich shook his head "no."

"No matter," the man said, waving his hand dismissively, then called out: "Inge! You backstage yet?"

The curtain fluttered as the sound of heeled shoes beat a sharp tattoo across the wooden floor. A woman emerged, wearing a white, beaded dress, curly blonde hair cut short in the "bob" fashion, and the smokiest dark blue eyes Roderich had ever seen. And they didn't miss a thing, those eyes. Roderich felt their spotlight glare taking in the jazz club the minute the woman stepped on stage, sweeping back and forth, ensuring all eyes present were on _her_. Desperate for an audience. Greedy for any attention. All performers had it. Roderich lived under a similar glare for years, not knowing what it was in his blind youth and desire to please his parents. Elizaveta had that same look.

"Yes, Bernd?" Inge said.

_Her voice was even high and breathy like Elizaveta's._

Roderich rubbed shaky fingers over his lips, trying not to laugh hysterically. He came to Berlin to escape his ex, not become accompanist to her clone. The doubt that had been swimming in Roderich's mind was finding purchase. Oh, God, he would _kill_ Gilbert when this was over! Because he knew. That damned albino knew! About this woman and the fact Roderich would sooner die than set foot in a place like this! And yet, here he was.

"Sing that song, 'Some of These Days,' so the pianist can hear how it goes."

Inge's eyes swept over to Roderich in a dramatic fashion, as if she had just noticed him. But Roderich knew the truth. It was a coy game to make him feel important, even though they both knew he was nothing but background noise.

Inge found her place on center stage, each step a test to make sure the new audience member was paying attention. And he was. For all of his internal criticisms, Roderich could not take his eyes off her. The grace in her poise covered her calculated movements effortlessly. Each twist and sway of her hip, perfectly planned so the stage lights caught each bead in her dress, making it dance….

'_Roddy, everyone's watching.'_

'_So let them watch,' Roderich grinned, pulling his new bride closer. 'We're married now. We can dance however close we want,' he said, surprised by his own boldness. It must be the wine. It had undoubtedly gone to his head – along with the music, the chattering guests, his mother and father looking so proud…._

_They had met through a mutual school friend earlier that year. Roderich, always too busy with studies, never actively sought out a girlfriend. That's not to say he avoided females altogether. He didn't. He simply found whenever he talked to them, he got the impression he bored them. So he spent the days with his nose in a book to avoid any more awkward conversations. Of course this led to rumors at school that he preferred men. Roderich would haughtily shoot down any jokester's attempt to find out about his sexuality, dismissing such things as immature. But secretly, he found himself wondering too. Then he met Elizaveta, and she seemed truly interested in him. Instead of rolling her eyes, she laughed at his jokes and seemed to hang on every word when he argued why Beethoven was better than Mozart. Roderich took her out to restaurants and countless performances and Elizaveta loved every moment of it. He knew he had finally found the girl to marry, to make his parents proud. Roderich could not let her go…. _

_Elizaveta's laugh tinkled in his ear, airy and sweet, bringing him back. A beautiful soprano. _His _beautiful soprano. _

_Roderich smiled again watching his new bride dance, admiring the way the late afternoon sun caught each bead on her dress, illuminating her slender form and making her seem even more ethereal._

'_In a year, when we're done with the conservatory, we'll be in Vienna! I'll be in the opera and you'll be a composer and I'll be your muse,' she whispered._

_Roderich drew back momentarily. 'V-Vienna? But I thought we'd move back here, to Eisenstadt. My great aunt left me her estate when she died two summers ago.'_

'_But what will _I_ do? You know how hard I fought with my parents to let me audition. I don't want to just throw away all those years of work.' Elizaveta leaned her head on Roderich's shoulder. _

_And Roderich couldn't tell her what was _really_ on his mind. She already knew of his parents' expectations for grandchildren though she didn't seem to take the matter as seriously as the Edelsteins did. No. It wasn't that. It was the other thing. The great looming thing in the distance. The war his parents had managed to keep him out of, but Roderich knew it could not last. Instead, he kissed her head and whispered: 'Whatever you wish, darling.'_

_Elizaveta threw her arms around her new husband as the music ended. The guests clapped and the musicians readied another piece. Elizaveta's emerald eyes swept the crowd, gathering in every adoring smile, every nodded approval._

Performers. Roderich snorted. Well. He was doomed to be surrounded by them no matter if he played piano for the Berlin symphony or in this dingy jazz club. But why, _why_ does _this_ one have to be so like _her?_

Inge's mouth curled up in a cat-like smile and she began to sing. Her voice was dark and smoky. Like her eyes. Like the club. She was a mezzo. _Her speaking voice must be an affectation, _Roderich thought. _She's not a soprano._ _Good. This might be doable after all._

Roderich relaxed, soon picking up on the melody, and began to play along.

Bernd had them do the song two more times, asking Roderich to improvise where he saw fit.

"It's like you two was made for each other," Bernd declared after their second run-through.

Inge floated down from the stage and began eagerly chatting with Bernd. Roderich merely inclined his head to show his appreciation for the compliment. He could not deny it. He and Inge matched each other perfectly, as if they anticipated the other's next move. It was rare to find a performer so able to change pitch or style based off a one-note hint from the piano; but Inge did it, effortlessly.

Before he knew it, Bernd was shoving armfuls of music at Roderich.

"You got a week to learn all these. You got a piano at your place?"

Roderich nodded.

"Good. We rehearse at three. Club opens at eight, and the show starts at eight-thirty. You'll get two fifteen-minute breaks. One at nine-thirty, the other at eleven, right before the final numbers. The girls go off stage at midnight, but it takes the guests up to an hour to trickle out the door, so be prepared to stay until one, sometimes two at the latest."

While Bernd outlined the performance and rehearsal schedule, he snatched back the sheet music he had thrust at Roderich and began rifling through it until he came to the piece he was looking for.

"Here," Bernd said, re-shuffling and re-ordering the music before pressing the lot back into Roderich's chest. "Start with 'Tiger Rag' and work your way from there. Be here tomorrow at three and we'll go over what you've got down so far."

All Roderich could do was nod. The reality of what he was agreeing to – giving up his beloved classical music to be a jazz pianist – had yet to sink in. He saw, rather than felt, himself retrieve his briefcase by the piano and stuff the new music into it. He became two people in that moment. There was the Roderich physically present in the club, shaking Bernd's hand before ambling up the front door; and there was the Roderich not present in body, but floating like cigarette smoke up near the balcony level and shouting down to the corporeal Roderich 'Stop! What do you think you're doing!? This isn't you!' But all Corporeal Roderich could hear was a loud buzzing between his ears punctuated by a smoky mezzo and fast piano.

* * *

_**A/N **__Wow. This one took way too long to post. My apologies, but it was one of those chapters that did not want to be written, no matter how many times I yelled at it. And it was supposed to be a lot longer too, but I figured I'd break it up and have something to at least post. But, meh, it's done. (I'm still not completely satisfied)._

_Anyway, if you're curious about the jazz music that is mentioned and helped inspire this chapter and wanna take a listen, here's some YouTube vids! (remove the spaces and (dots) and (slashes) of course)._

_Tiger Rag: .com (forward slash) watch (question mark) v (equals) lb (underscore) 3iZHlaqA_

_Some of These Days (this version is from the HBO series 'Boardwalk Empire'): .com (forward slash) watch (question mark) v (equals) EHGP4eYO4WU_

_Thanks for reading/reviewing/putting up with me and my delays! I love you guys. And I promise, the next chapter will have some….juicier….moments that will justify the M rating._


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N **__Warning: This chapter does contain sexual themes/material as well as some minor violence. Don't say I didn't warn you._

_Also, the time skips around a bit. It starts off in 1920, then goes to Roderich waking up in 1924. The italicized bit at the end is a flashback to 1921. Whew. Not confusing at all right? :-) _

_thanks for reading!_

_*i edited the crap out this...so many mistakes! Sry!* **facepalm**_

* * *

…_smiling as you took my hand, so removed…_

**Berlin 1920-21/1924**

The white light of the afternoon sun blinded him as he left the murky club. Roderich blinked, shielding his eyes for a moment so they could recover. A white figure leaned against the dingy building, its shirt unbuttoned and fluttering in the hot breeze swirling up from the street. A hand was casually shoved in the front pocket of its dungarees while the other flicked the ash from a cigarette.

Gilbert.

Roderich had almost forgotten – swept up in a choking mix of too much smoke and memories and music – he had almost forgotten it was _Gilbert_ who brought him here. It was Gilbert who shoved him through that door. It was Gilbert. Gilbert. Always and forever Gilbert – the reason why he'd come to Berlin. The reason why a divorce was now pending. The reason why he smoked. The reason why he was sweating in his best blue suit under an unforgiving August sun on a forgotten sidewalk in a claustrophobic city instead of relaxed in the open, fresh air of Eisenstadt. It was Gilbert's fault, all Gilbert's fault – and all the offender could do was stand there, smoking, absently humming an off-key tune.

Roderich's eyes narrowed. His hand tightened around his portfolio's leather handle. His polished shoe turned – away from Gilbert – as he limped up the sidewalk heading back to the apartment they shared.

A retreating figure dressed in a heavy blue suit caught Gilbert's attention. Roderich was preparing to cross the street before Gilbert even noticed his companion had left the club. He took a last hasty drag from his cigarette before flicking it away and giving chase to the retreating blue.

"Roderich!" Gilbert called. "Hey Roddy, wait up!"

But Roderich either didn't hear or pretended not to hear his shouts over the crowd jostling their way across the street. The pianist continued his stiff march home, never once turning back.

* * *

By the time he made it up the narrow flight of stairs to their third floor flat, Roderich's leg was killing him. It was now no more than a deadweight dragging behind him as he hauled himself through the door and over to the couch where he promptly collapsed, shutting his eyes. The heat and the walk had given him a headache. He wished nothing more than to close his eyes and upon next waking, discover this day hadn't actually happened.

Short, loud thuds echoed up the stairs, penetrating the paper-thin walls. Roderich winced. Each footfall was a pounding in his head. It was Gilbert, he knew. He would recognize that clomping cadence anywhere.

Roderich allowed one eye to crack open, then the other. His vision shifted in and out of focus before catching on something as the clomping grew closer. It was the spinet piano. The small instrument stood perfectly in front of him against the opposite wall. Looking at it, Roderich knew the day had been no dream. He felt the soft, worn leather of the portfolio, held loosely in his hand, and knew if he looked inside, he'd find the jazz sheets brushing against his beloved Beethoven and Mahler. His music was polluted. Roderich's hand clenched around the handle once more. _He_ was polluted.

Without reason or hesitation, he flung the leather case at the spinet just as Gilbert burst through the door. Gilbert flinched out of instinct, though the case was a good four feet from him. It landed on the spinet with a crash of keys before flopping dully to the floor.

Gilbert looked at the piano and case, then at Roderich who sat, stone-faced, staring at the spinet. Roderich's nose tilted up in the air in an imitation of indignation, but the rest of his features remained unreadable.

"H-how did it go?" Gilbert tried to grin, carefully shutting the door. He was unsure and afraid of what sudden noises might do to his lover in a state such as this.

Roderich snapped his head over to Gilbert.

"How did it go?" the Austrian echoed, his voice a deadly whisper.

"How did it go?" he said again, pitching himself forward so his elbows rested on his knees.

Gilbert felt himself backing closer to the door. His hand was still on the knob and he did not like being on the defensive and not knowing why. He pulled his hand away quickly, folded his arms, and rocked back on heels, trying to regain his bravado.

"Well, you left outta there like a bat outta hell, so – "

"So how do you think I did!" Roderich exploded, rising to his feet. "I got the job! I am but another whore in Bernd's _Golden Music Revue_!"

Roderich fell back onto the couch. He took off his glasses and pretended to clean them. He didn't want to look at Gilbert or the piano or this damned apartment.

"B-but Roddy, that's _great_ news!" Gilbert said. "You got a job doin' the thing you love. Just wait! Now we'll show your folks and all those who said we'd never make it."

Roderich grimaced to himself. He could practically _hear_ Gilbert's fist hitting the air in triumph with each word he spoke.

"Didn't you hear me, Gilbert?" Roderich bit out. He angled his head up, eyes squinting to bring the other man into focus. "Yes, I got the job. But it's not what I love. It's not who I am."

"Not this again," Gilbert sighed, exasperated.

Roderich made to protest but Gilbert cut across him. "How do you know, Specs? Huh? How do you know until you give it a try?"

He came over to the couch and sat beside Roderich. "Before you met me, _none_ of the stuff you've done would've crossed that prim and proper mind of yours." Gilbert poked Roderich on the forehead for emphasis.

"What do you mean?" Roderich said, swatting away Gilbert's finger.

"Leaving your comfy life," Gilbert said, catching Roderich's hand.

The pianist made to pull away but Gilbert held fast his slender wrist and edged closer.

"Standing up for yourself." Gilbert took Roderich's other hand – the one that held his glasses – and loosened the wire frames from the Austrian's pinched fingers.

"Telling your family and your gold-digger wife what they could go do to themselves." Gilbert seated the wire frames back on Roderich's nose, reaching up a hand to comb through his silken brunette locks, edging ever closer and eyes locked on Roderich's.

Roderich's breath caught, lips parting just so as he beheld those eyes. They were definitely red in this light.

Gilbert leaned in, catching Roderich's mouth, tongue flicking out to tempt his lover's.

Roderich's gut tightened as Gilbert's pointed tongue teased his own. He pushed back with his a little harder. He could not help it. Despite everything, he still craved that taste…that feel…that slickness.

Gilbert took the hint and maneuvered himself onto Roderich's lap.

Roderich straightened shrugging off his suit coat. Why had he kept that encumbrance on for so long anyway?

Pale fingers snaked through dark hair, around a thin neck. Gilbert's lips sought other regions of unexplored flesh, working their way along the pianist's sharp jaw, playfully nipping at Roderich's ear, before ending their roving to tease the flesh just below the jawbone.

Each suck and release brought new jolts of desire surging through Roderich's core. His fingers, splayed across the muscular expanse of Gilbert's back, contracted and clawed.

Gilbert's hands dipped down to begin working loose the buttons of Roderich's dress shirt. The pianist met him halfway.

Gilbert pulled back from his ministrations to Roderich's neck to admire the thin chest rising and falling beneath him. He traced a finger along the collarbone, finding the dip at Roderich's throat and lazily letting his finger continue on a path downwards.

Roderich drew a sharp breath at the touch. His brows knit in a desperate "Please."

Gilbert grinned, his mouth slightly parted. He lowered his lips to follow the path his finger had traced, pausing to nip at the collarbone. His hand dipped under the band of Roderich's pants, fingers brushing the tip of something smooth and wet and wanting to be free of its constraints.

Gilbert obliged.

Roderich's head rolled back, a deep moan breaking from his throat, as a firm hand pumped his cock.

Gilbert's lips left Roderich's chest – a map of pink and red showing where he'd been. He eased himself to the floor, guiding Roderich closer to the couch's edge. Thin fingers raked through silvery hair. Roderich glanced down at the man whom he secretly called lover. Gilbert's eyes flitted up briefly to meet his, and Roderich was certain Gilbert's eyes were red.

A pointed pink tongue flicked out, stroking along the shaft. Roderich's head dropped back. He tried to stifle another moan as two perfect pale lips closed around his length...

Roderich awoke with a start. His glasses had slid askew, but through one lens he could just make out the dark blue curtains and amber wood of his club's stage. Then his eyes focused on something else – a glass tumbler knocked on its side, the remains of its contents pooled on the wooden bar top.

_Shit._ Roderich's eyes slid shut. He must have passed out at some point on the bar.

Through the haze of that night's dream-memories, Roderich vaguely wondered what time it was. He opened his eyes again and peeled his cheek off the sticky bar top. He immediately wished he hadn't.

His skull felt like it had been cracked open with a sledgehammer, but that was nothing compared to the aching…problem…pressing against his inseam and begging to be dealt with.

Roderich adjusted himself and fumbled for his cane. He hauled himself up off the bar stool, shoving a bent cigarette between his lips and lighting it. He ran a hand over his face, trying to dispel his tiredness to no avail. Roderich squinted at the watch on his wrist. Almost six. Good. Antonio was probably still awake.

Roderich stumbled out the front door, making sure to hit the house lights as he left. He may still be drunk, or at least hung over, but he was not careless when it came to conserving electricity – and money. The lock to the front door, however, was another case. It took him five tries before he was able to get the key in the lock. He half-considered leaving the door unlocked until the key finally went in.

Lights off and door locked, Roderich made his way around to the side of the building, to the entrance that led to the apartments above.

When he bought the place from Bernd, he not only got the club but the flats above the club which had fallen sadly into disrepair and were being used for storage. Roderich knew he couldn't rent them out to the public. Who would want to live above a noisy jazz club? But he could provide a safer, cheaper source of housing for his performers. And that's what he did. With what little money he had left from the purchase and renovation of the jazz club, Roderich gutted the apartments and rented out the refurbished flats. Now he didn't have to worry about his girls walking home late at night and he could ensure they would be on time for rehearsal, plus there was the added perk of extra cash coming from gentleman callers. The after hours patrons, he called them.

Before he took over the club and gave them a place to live, the girls would conduct their business in the secret, darkened corners or behind the stage. Bernd turned a blind eye, except when the profits from the door dropped far below that of the girls' other wages. Then he was forced to collect, to keep the club open.

The year things turned sour was the year Bernd suffered two small heart attacks followed by the stroke that killed him. It was after the second heart attack that Roderich purchased the club from the old man – whether it was out of a deep-seated humanist ethic to save Bernd the only way he knew how or out of a selfish, desperate need to not give up the only thing, the only life, he knew in Berlin, Roderich could never be honest with himself when the reason _why_ he bought the club surfaced in his thoughts.

Roderich let the girls keep their late night activities, collecting the earnings though he loathed doing it. He was not a pimp, but at times it was the only means to keep the lights on. And to his surprise, the men never took advantage – granted if it looked like a customer was about to cause a scene, he was thrown out before anything could escalate. The girls had their regular customers, some coming just to admire the performance and others wanting a bit more. And they respected the girls and the club's unspoken rules. In four years, Roderich only had one incident – and he was thankful, for once, for his cane.

It happened right after he changed the repertoire. It was poor Feliks, his little blonde Pole who was unnaturally shy, except when on stage. Whether the man decided it would be a lark to rough up a young man in drag or whatever led to it, Roderich never found out and he didn't press the issue. As he was leaving the club, Roderich heard a commotion in one of the upstairs apartments. It happened to be late May and Feliks' window was open. When he heard the breaking of glass, Roderich hastened to investigate. The apartment was wrecked – chairs overturned, picture frames smashed – and Feliks huddled in a corner with a rapidly swelling eye. The man looked at Roderich, framed in the doorway, and began to approach. Wihtout a word and in one swift swing of his arm, Roderich brought his cane cracking across the man's knees.

Roderich's cane was not made from the standard rattan. It was a rod of solid steel. Gilbert's abrupt departure had prompted Roderich to seek a means of self-defense. Left alone as a gay, crippled, musician, he was suddenly aware of his own vulnerability. Roderich swore he'd never hold another gun again and knives were only good for close fighting. He needed something with some distance, and a solid metal cane painted jet black fit the bill. Looking back, it was the only strangely good thing to come of Gilbert's leaving….

One of the man's legs bent in at an odd angle, felling the man to the floor. Roderich figured he must have dislocated a kneecap, and that simply wasn't enough payment for what this man had inflicted. Roderich raised the cane and brought it down again on the bent knee. He knew he'd broken it this time. With a final whack to the ribs for good measure, Roderich grabbed the man by his collar and dragged him out of the door. Adrenalin pulsed through his veins and he was tempted to throw the man out of Feliks' window but decided a trip down the stairs would be better – the man might survive that versus a fall out of a window and it would definitely leave a lasting memory. You don't fuck with Roderich Edelstein or anything that belongs to him.

A warm light shone from under Antonio's door and the sounds of shuffling feet could be heard just beyond. The Spaniard was still awake.

Roderich leaned against the wall across from Antonio's apartment, catching his breath. The dizzying walk up four flights of stairs had not helped his already swimming head. He stumbled forward with hand raised and ready to knock when the door to Antonio's apartment flew open.

A man with a Mediterranean complexion and dark auburn hair stood in the doorway, fixing Roderich with a surly glare.

Roderich's need to see Antonio was starting to diminish – until the Spaniard appeared behind the surly man wearing a silk robe tied loosely around him and falling open at the chest and leg and exposing the smooth caramel skin underneath.

The man turned towards Antonio, who held out a canvas jacket and something metal that looked like a lunch pail. The man took the objects, glared back over his shoulder at Roderich, and planted a swift kiss on Antonio's cheek. He brushed past the Austrian, flung his jacket over his shoulder and headed for the stairs.

Antonio watched the man go before turning to Roderich and exclaiming as if he'd just noticed him: "Roderich! It's late for you, or is it early? Haha! Come in! You look like you've seen a ghost."

The Spaniard ushered the Austrian in, seating him at the kitchen table.

"I-I'm sorry, Antonio, I didn't realize you still had a…a patron."

"Patron? _Mi amigo_, no! That was Lovino, my boyfriend! And they're called 'clients,' Roderich."

"Oh," Roderich said, ducking his head and folding his hands awkwardly in his lap. What had seemed like a good idea was starting to make him feel foolish. How could he not know Antonio had a boyfriend? Surely they must have talked about these things before….

"Hey, don't look like that," Antonio said upon seeing his reaction. "Lovino knows what I do. I'm not embarrassed by it. Hey! Do you want some breakfast? I've still got some eggs and toast and there's coffee. You look terrible. You need to eat something."

Not waiting for an answer, Antonio busied himself preparing a plate for Roderich and a cup of coffee for himself.

"I hope Lovi didn't scare you. It's nothing you did. He's always like that, especially in the mornings. But deep down, he's a good guy, really considerate. He just doesn't let that side show too much, but it's there. He's from Italy, and his little brother still lives there. Oh! And his little brother is so talented. Really, a great artist! He's barely thirteen and already has a commission! Can you imagine? Thirteen with a commission? When I was thirteen, I was off in my own little world, just happy to do whatever. But if you ever need a scene painter, I could talk to Lovi and maybe we could work something out so his brother could come up and work for you. What do you say?"

"…What?" Roderich said, startled. "Oh. Oh, yes. A scene painter. Right. Sure…."

Up until this point, Roderich had been staring at the table, not really taking in anything Antonio was saying, thinking about his own ex-lover and the brother he had...

"…I, uh, I hired a doorman tonight."

"Oh! So that's what this is about!" Antonio said excitedly, placing a plate and a cup in front of Roderich. "Who is he? Tell me tell me tell me!"

"How did you – what – but I never said – " Roderich stammered.

"Amigo, you don't have to say anything. It was all over your face when you said 'doorman.' Your lips kind of, like, tightened. You obviously know him. So is he good, bad, or otherwise?"

With an irritated huff – he could _never_ fathom how that absent minded Spaniard could know so much about a person just by looking at them – Roderich took a sip of coffee and told Antonio all about Gilbert.

"Now I don't know what to think," Roderich said after he'd finished. "I don't know what we are or if we're anything."

"You mean is he still your boyfriend?"

Roderich rolled his eyes. He hated that term. "Yes," he said tersely.

"Well, who says you have to be anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"You Germans," Antonio snorted. "You're so concerned with labels and having everything organized just so."

"I'm _Austrian_," Roderich bristled.

"Same difference," Antonio shrugged. "Anyway, what I mean is, why not have a bit of fun? Who says you have to be serious about it? If you wanna have a guy you can do stuff with, well, there you go, you have one. Otherwise you're free to shop around, honey."

Roderich quirked an eyebrow as he picked at the rest of the toast on his plate. He'd never considered that possibility before. In actuality he wasn't even sure if he was capable of doing it. He hated hiding his affairs with Gilbert from Elizaveta for those two years. But still, it would give him an opportunity to make Gilbert feel like the unloved party...

Antonio yawned, stretching his arms out and pushing back from the table, going around the stand behind Roderich. He gave the Austrian's shoulders a light squeeze and went back into the bedroom. Roderich followed.

* * *

The heavy curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the late morning sun, but Roderich could not sleep. He lay on his side, staring at the blur he knew to be a wall, thinking about what Antonio had said.

The Spaniard's arm draped lightly over Roderich's chest as he curled into the Austrian's body, his breath warm and feathery against Roderich's neck.

"Roderich," Antonio said softly through the veil of sleep, "I can hear you thinking. You need to get some rest."

"…I know," Roderich breathed, placing a tentative kiss on Antonio's hand.

Antonio snaked his hand around to work the tense muscles in Roderich's back. When he was satisfied he'd gotten most of the knots out, Antonio wrapped his arm back around Roderich and pulled him closer, kissing his shoulder blade.

The press of a chest against his back with each deep breath told Roderich Antonio had fallen back asleep. But he still could not.

'…_Do you love me, Gilbert?' Roderich had asked, staring one night into the unseeing darkness that engulfed their bedroom. It was a hollow question asked to hollow air and Roderich desperately wanted to take it back. Earlier that evening they'd had another row about money. Always about money. Gilbert had lost his job after reporting later and later and leaving earlier and earlier each day until one day he just didn't show up at all. At the time, Gilbert was making more than Roderich and was the primary supporter even though they tried to split things as evenly as they could. When Roderich asked what he had been up to not bothering to go to work, Gilbert refused to tell him. Roderich accused Gilbert of harboring secrets, even though he had one of his own. It was his fail-safe should they run in to hard times – the remains of his inheritance, what he was able to withdraw before his parents got wind of their son's disloyalty and liquidated his assets. He never told Gilbert he had it, not wanting to tempt the man's recklessness._

_After the fight, Roderich and Gilbert didn't speak to each other for the rest of the night until Gilbert, after having cleaned out their supply of beer and wine, apologized sloppily and profusely for being such a 'fuck up.'_

Roderich snorted as he thought of it now. Gilbert always said make up sex was the best kind, and Roderich had lost count how many times that year they made up.

'…_Do you love me, Gilbert?'_

_Roderich lay on his side, curled at the far edge of the bed. Gilbert was beside him, one arm flung around him. The light brush of pale blonde chest hairs tickled Roderich's back with each breath Gilbert took._

'_What?' Gilbert mumbled into the sheets._

_Roderich swallowed, afraid of the answer. 'I asked…if you loved me.'_

_Gilbert let out a yawn. ''Course I do, Specs.' He shifted himself closer to Roderich, entwining one leg with the pianist's and pressing his face into the dip in Roderich's back. 'Who else would put up with your shit?'_

_Roderich felt Gilbert grin against him. After a few moments, Gilbert's breath returned to its deep, even pace. Roderich took the hand that dangled over his chest and wrapped his fingers in it. He brought Gilbert's hand to his lips and kissed it before closing his eyes._

Two weeks later, Gilbert would be gone.


End file.
